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Good Morning

A friend of mine used to read poetry in the mornings, before going to work.  She said it was like exercise for the mind: it woke her up, forced her to think and to imagine.   She would read out loud, so that she could feel the words as well as understand them.

This year being the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death, I’ve been thinking about his poetry and plays.  Thinking about the words which have buried their way into my memory and heart over a lifetime.  And the moments which speak most directly to me.   In King Lear, during the storm on the heath, Lear suddenly sees clearly in the midst of his mad anguish.   I don’t know why the lines have stayed with me, except perhaps this:  when my mother was most stricken in her Alzheimers, most out of her sweet, unselfish mind – that was the terrible time when she felt lost to us.  But sometimes, the storm would miraculously pass, and in a moment she would know herself again.  And us. 

So when I read the kindly words Lear speaks to his Fool, in the darkness and rain,  I remember:

My wits begin to turn.
Come on, my boy: how dost, my boy? art cold?
I am cold myself…

Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee.

I grew up, too, with the poetry of the Scottish paraphrases, and my prayer this morning is taken from one, based on verses from Hosea:

Our hearts, if God we seek to know,

Shall know him and rejoice;

His coming like the morn shall be,

Like morning songs his voice.                      Amen